Four Sons
by Roga
Summary: The story tells us of four sons one Wise, one Wicked, one Simple, and One Who Does Not Know How To Ask. Scenes from 1976 and 1980. Siriuscentric.


**The story tells us of four sons…**

**One Wise**

_1976_

He's just begun undressing when James asks sharply, "what are you doing?"

"Er… taking my clothes off?" Sirius says, tossing his robes onto the bed and starting to unbutton his trousers.

"Well, put them on again!" James exclaims. "You're not getting naked in here."

"It's my room!" he replies indignantly. "I've been doing it for the past six years!"

"Well, the prefects are doing dorm inspections today, and Remus is still at Pomfrey's, which means that Lily could knock on our door any second."

"Maybe y_ou_ should get naked, then."

"Contrary to your unpopular, deluded beliefs, I'm not actually that dim."

"Sure you are," Sirius grins, and mutters "a_ccio Potter's robes_" with a flick of his wand. James yelps in surprise when his robes smoothly detangle themselves from his body, leaving him nearly starkers. "Otherwise, I wouldn't have been able to do that, and you _definitely_ wouldn't have been wearing _that_," he smirks, indicating the Bambi-patterned pants.

James summons back his robes with annoyance. "I'll have you know that character is very popular with the ladies," he huffs.

"Really?" Sirius lifts an amused eyebrow. "Peter doesn't seem like the cartoon type."

James snorts, and then falls backwards on his bed with a dramatic sigh, something he's known to do at times of extreme, badly-suppressed, agitation. "Please, Pads," he moans, "put your shirt on. I don't want you stealing all the attention when she comes."

Suddenly Sirius notices the remarkably clean state the room is in – the window is spotless, the bed frames are glossy and the floor appears to be sparkling. It even smells like soap. "You've really put yourself into this, haven't you?" he notes, impressed.

"Three layers of cleaning charms, and a Muggle floor scrubbing."

"It shows, definitely worth having you clean around here."

"Thought you'd think so. I used one of your old shirts to scrub with."

Sirius lets that pass with nothing but a brief arse-pinching hex. There's a knock on the door, and immediately James sits up, glancing at Sirius and looking relieved to see him fully covered.

"Even if scrub the Great Hall with a House-Elf toothbrush, she still won't give you the time of day, you know."

James's eyes are focused on the door with apprehension. "She will, someday."

"And all this effort." Sirius searches James's face for what seems like the hundredth time this year, looking for some explanation to how James's priorities and self investment have managed to shift so drastically over one summer, while Sirius hasn't quite managed to catch up. "It's really worth it?"

"_I know you're in there, Potter, and if you're too scared of what I'll do when I discover your last minute dirt-disguising illusions you're BLOODY WELL RIGHT TO BE!"_

Without hesitation, James replies. "Absolutely."

**One Wicked**

_1980_

There's a musty smell in the small flat that Sirius has rented in London, as if the smog had seeped in through cracks in the wall and made its imprint on everything, but it's his third place this year and it's only April, so if he's going to be picky it'll be because of neighbours sporting skull-and-snake tattoos on their forearms, or bad plumbing – but not because of a musty smell.

Besides, he's got help cleaning. A rat scuttles up to him and morphs into a sneezing Peter Pettigrew. "The panels in the kitchen are done," he announces. "Should I do the bedroom next?"

Sirius yawns but starts coughing on the dust Peter has carried in with him. "Bedroom. Yes," he says tiredly, certain there's a joke hiding somewhere in the way he said it, but he's given up on trying to understand Peter's sense of humor long ago. James and Remus are the ones who understand Wormtail – Sirius is the one who gives him leftover attention.

And yet, he's here, helping him out, after all. He should show he's not ungrateful. "Pete," he calls, and then decides to simply enter the bedroom, where Peter's moving some cabinets around, which means he'll probably clean up in human shape. Sirius sits down on the thin, stained mattress. "Just wanted to say. It's, um, good of you to help."

"It's nothing," Peter replies, nonetheless looking a bit pleased. "You'd do the same for me, right?"

Sirius gives him a weary smile. He probably would. Thankfully, Peter's flat is unlikely to ever need a thorough cleaning like this one – it's been steadily safe for the three years he's had it, as opposed to Sirius, who's been targeted and chased ever since Voldemort had somehow gotten information that he had access to Order secrets and was generally considered an easy to crack nut, compared to the other, older, trained members.

"Any word from Remus yet?"

Sirius shakes his head. "No. He was supposed to be back from Wales yesterday."

"Oh," Peter says, returning to his work methodically. Sirius leans back on the mattress – just for a second, god, he's tired. "He's probably just…" Peter trails off. "Did you hear about the Death Eater attack in Wales yesterday, then? Oh, I'm sure he wasn't hurt, it would have been in the paper."

His eyes close of themselves. Of course Moony's not hurt. He'd feel it if he was.

"Funny, there was an attack in Manchester last month when he was there too, right? And in Little Whinging, the month before that." Peter's voice sounds like it was coming from far away. "Poor Moony – almost as if they're following him or something…"

Thoughts about Moony fade away as he drifts into a deep, dreamless sleep.

**One Simple**

_1976_

"You will listen to me, and you will do it right now," Remus commands.

Padfoot whines, and lifts a paw to rub his nose.

"No! You will not be cute with me!" Another whine is followed by the defiant placing of hands on narrow hips. "Now get in that tub!"

Padfoot sadly ducks his head in defeat, and hops into the tub with resignation, making sure to make the biggest splash he can at Remus to indicate his protest. Remus takes a bottle of pet shampoo and squirts directly on Padfoot's fur.

"It's your fault, you know," Remus starts what Padfoot knows will be a long tirade, as he starts rubbing in the shampoo, firm hands on Padfoot's back. "You know how I feel about the smell of wet dog. And yet you go on – _frolicking_ – " he says the word as if it were an indictment in court - "outside in the lake and the mud, just because it's spring."

Padfoot sits obediently, his panting echoing loudly in the room. "And then you insist on changing in the dorm room, when you know perfectly well that showering as a human doesn't get rid of your dog-stink –" Remus scrubs soap down Padfoot's throat, belly, front legs, hands gentler than his tone of voice. "—and I simply won't have that in my room."

Padfoot turns around when Remus gestures, and feels warm hands sliding down his back and tail. "Dimethyl trisulfide." Padfoot gives an impatient little yowl, but then, he knew this would come. Remus is so predictable. "Phenol. P-cresol. Isobutanal." As Remus continues naming the endless, dreary list, he turns Padfoot back around and scrubs behind his ears. "…Acetaldehyde. Benzaldehyde. And," he takes Padfoot's face in his hands and meets his eyes, "phenylacetaldehyde. Your body takes all of those, mixes them up, and produces that vile, unriddable smell. Padfoots," he ponders, "really should come with a "Do _not_ add water" warning."

Padfoot lets out a hurt whine, and Remus upturns a pail of hot water over his head.

"Right," he says, and smiles. "All clean now. You still smell rather foul, but after you dry you should be rosier than a baby's bum." He pats Padfoot on the head affectionately. "You don't have to do much to be on my good side, you know. Just know how good and bad are catalogued – I'm pretty consistent about it. That's all that matters. So for future reference, 'wet dog' is bad. All right?"

Padfoot licks his nose with a smack, and then happily shakes his fur all over Remus.

"Right," Remus sighs, dripping. "Glad we got that covered."

**And One Who Does Not Know How To Ask**

_1980_

The soft click of the door is followed by the sound of someone stumbling in.

_Have you heard about the attack at Blackpool? Were you there? Were you hurt, or were you one of the-_

Remus looks exhausted. His cheek is swollen, and there are scratches on his arms. Shallow. Easy to heal.

_Why haven't you healed them yourself? Has something happened to your wand? Are they self-inflicted? Are you trying to appear wounded? Are you even tired at all?_

"I'll go make some tea," Sirius says, gets up from the sofa just as Remus collapses into it. Remus grunts something but it's too weak to be heard over the boiling water, and Sirius can't tell if it was "thanks" or "don't bother".

A moment later, he returns to the living room with a cup of tea to find Remus shirtless, looking about to nod off sitting upright. "You shouldn't've," he mutters under heavy-lidded eyes. "It'll keep me up."

_What's got you this tired? The only time I've seen James this drained was after a confrontation with Voldemort, is that what happened? Where were you standing when it did?_

"Sirius?"

"Mmm?" Sirius puts his fingers lightly on Remus's arms and heals the scratches, realizing when he's done it's a habit he can no more avoid than breathing.

"Oh," Remus looks faintly surprised, as if he'd forgotten the cuts were there. "Thank you." Sirius just nods, swallows, grazes the swollen cheek with his palm, murmuring the healing spell. "I wanted to ask you for… help." He indicates the pile of clothes on the floor, shirt and robes, stained and dirty. "It's going to need some laundry."

Though Remus has managed to say it lightly, Sirius feels like a tiny, burning candle inside him has just died. He picks up the clothes and studies them darkly, accusingly. There are only few types of stains that can't be charmed clean with magic.

_Who did you kill, Moony?_

"Thank you," Remus mutters again, gratefully. "'M'sorry for coming here again."

Remus's flat is drafty, cold, and leaky, and while Sirius's flat is hardly better, it's warmer and has cups of tea and a friend to wash the blood from your robes.

_Did anyone follow you here? Will I have to move again? Will there be another surprise attack again on James and Lily's, tomorrow? Do you pick up on the fact that we don't trust you anymore? How can you not? How can you still come here if you do? Do you remember that we love you, that we turned into Animagi for you, that Lily's pregnant with a boy, that with us there's a future and if you're still one of us I swear I'll do my bloody best to keep you happy? If I ask you any of these questions, will you lie?_

Remus shifts his head on the cushions, and some hair, light brown and shoulder length, falls on his face. He doesn't make an attempt to brush it away. Almost sleeping, he looks very little like a spy, but a lot like a lost, hurt, twenty year old boy.

_Are you okay?_

"Are you okay?" Sirius asks quietly.

Remus sighs. "No, not really."

_A/N: The original line comes from the Passover Haggadah, and reads: "The Torah tells us of four sons…" I felt 'story' was more appropriate in the HP verse._

_Story written for the wellymuck LJ community prompt: spring cleaning._


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